


Sing, Sing, Sing Me To Death My Love

by Zayrastriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:25:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much What It Says On The Tin: Castiel sings Dean to death, because there’s nothing else he can do.</p><p>(Or: Dean doesn't manage to make it to that field and stop the apocalypse, but that doesn't matter anymore.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing, Sing, Sing Me To Death My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Far more depressing-but-not than I'd imagined.  
> Hope you enjoy :3 I'm actually thinking of writing a sequel (far more cheerful) to this - reunions be fun ,after all.

Dean can see Castiel’s wings now – no lame-ass flicker of shadow or whatever the hell he saw in the warehouse too – the real deal, metallic and dark and fricking _huge_ , streaked with lines of gold.

“Dude, your wings are fucking awesome,” he mutters, though he’s not actually sure if Cas hears him.  He can’t hear himself over the ringing in his ears; but Cas inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement

He wonders why, wonders why his eyes aren’t burning out of his socket, how he can even _see_ when he knows the light of Castiel’s…soul? Grace? Whatever…should be killing him.

 _Not that I’m not already dying or anything_ , and with a bitter laugh (that sputters and dies with a cough of blood, bright and visceral against the remnants of his pale shirt) he realises just why he can see the wings, why it seems like there are _two_ of his angel before him, one regular Jimmy-the-holy-tax-accountant, and the other _different_.  Supernatural, really.

Shame he didn’t get to see it earlier, before he’s dying in an angel’s arms with his vision blurred by sweat and what might, oh horror, actually be tears.

He’s dying, and he doesn’t understand why it’s happening now, after everything; why, after all that he’s gone through, all the times he died doing perfectly respectably badass shit – hell, even fucked-up future him got to die with some measure of awesomeness – it’s a fucking average, run-of-the-mill spirit that finally gets him.  The fucking Apocalypse is going down (for real, with Sam lost forever, but Lucifer said he was dead and at least Dean is joining him now) around him, and it’s a _spirit_ – some sorority chick, killed by her best friend.

There’s a cruel, totally un-hilarious irony to this.

 

~

 

“I can’t do anything.  I’m sorry,” Castiel says but doesn’t feel; it’s as though his emotions have reverted back to how they used to be, filtered and distant, when he first entered Jimmy Novak’s body. 

It’s entirely possible that this is what humans refer to as _shock_.  But the condition, if indeed that is what he suffers from in this moment, is misnamed.  _Shock_ implies violent sensation, and there is no violent _anything_.  Merely emptiness, as though part of him died the moment he realised that he can’t do anything for Dean.

“If only-“ _If only what_?  He lost his powers long ago, and it’s a mercy (or a curse, for the reminder it forces him to live with of his former glory) that he still holds his old form, even though his wings, contrary to Dean’s dying insistence, are withering and moulting, a shade of what they used to be.

“It’s fine, Cas, really-“ Another coughing fit, and Dean convulses in Castiel’s arms.

On an impulse, he shifts from Dean’s side to behind him, shuffling back till he feels a wall behind him and pulling the dying man into his chest.  He can feel Dean’s spinal cord through their shirts, and he doesn’t understand how he didn’t notice Dean wasting away, growing thinner and thinner as opportunities to eat properly became more and more rare.  “No, Dean,” he says gently, “it’s not.”

 _He’s in your care, Castiel, Zachariah tells him with a smirk underscoring the words and Castiel doesn’t understand but he is a soldier and he will obey; and he does, even when he’s cast out and perhaps this was God’s plan for Castiel, some punishment for the inevitability of his falling because Dean is dying and there is_ nothing _he can do_ -

Dean manages to turn slightly, sagging into Castiel before mustering enough energy to force his eyes upwards to meet Castiel’s, pain bright and sharp in his gaze.  “Dude, I can feel you freaking out.  Just – it’s alright, really.  I mean, I’m going to heaven, right?  That’s what happened last time, anyway, and I reckon if I am then Sammy’s going to be there too, yeah?”

There could be no God, no angel, cruel enough to cast either Winchester into perdition after all this; so Castiel nods, because he will believe that.

He _must_.

“Will you?”

 _No_.

“Cas, promise me you’ll be there.”

And so he says “yes,” because he will never refuse Dean anything, will turn himself mortal and then kill himself and fight his way to heaven if that’s what is required.

Dean relaxes, lets his eyelids droop closed.

 

~

 

Dean can feel himself drifting off into sleep, the pain softening as his body adjusts (it always does, or did, since he’s pretty damn sure it’s not going to get much opportunity after this to do that.) 

But he’s not stupid – _sleep_ now would be fucking _dying_ , and he’s fine with that, except there’s something he wants to ask.  One final question, because he’s curious.  “Hey, Cas,” he mumbles, too weak to turn his face around.  “I can see you now, ‘cause I’m dying.”

“Yes.”  Cas’s voice is cautious; he sounds confused, like he’s not sure if that was a statement or an actual question. 

Dean’s not sure either, really – he’s still hoping, maybe, that at the last minute Cas will do his thing and just whip something out of his ass, something that might save Dean  – and it might be fucking stupid but he can’t help it.

“So I figure that if I see you,” he stops to moisten his throat, “then I can hear your real voice?”

 

~

 

“Yes.”

Truth be told, Castiel isn’t entirely sure; but it isn’t an unreasonable leap of faith to assume that, if Dean is able to bear an accurate visualisation of Castiel’s true being, then the same might be made for his ability to process Castiel’s voice.  “What would you like me to say?” he asks.

For a moment there’s no response and Castiel feels his human form tense, feels his wings prepare to fold in and cover them as a gesture of mourning, a yearning for privacy in a world that offers nothing but destruction.

But then Dean turns his face away from Castiel’s chest, tries to pull himself up slightly (blood flowing more freely over Castiel’s fingers from around the knife in Dean’s chest) and Castiel shifts again, so Dean is cradled in his arms.  It’s effortless for him, but the way Dean twitches, a very light flush rising to his paper-white face, brings his attention to the rather intimate position they’re in.

Not that anything like that matters now, when Dean has perhaps six and a half minutes of life left.

“I was…” Dean’s voice is raspy, thin and hollow like he’s speaking while in the process of being asphyxiated.  “Wondering.  If you sing.  You know, bein’ an angel an’ a-“

He doesn’t even have enough strength to cough now; just enough to shake and shudder weakly.

 _Five minutes_.

“I do,” Castiel replies, and before the numbness clears enough for the moisture welling in his eyes to fall, he opens his mouth and, for the first time in a year, lets his true voice ring out, his soul open and bare. 

It’s the first song Castiel ever learned, and the oldest.  A hymn; wordless because angels don’t need words, don’t need human constructs to frame their expression; a hymn of love. Joyful love, for God.  Sorrow for a lost brother.  Passion, for the great war.

In this moment, though; a swan song for Dean Winchester.

No more than he deserves, and when Dean reaches up with one shaking hand to pull Castiel into down to meet his lips (cracked and bleeding and the stench of death has never been so intoxicating) he sings into the kiss, sings into Dean’s soul as it slips from his body and leaves Castiel finally, irrevocably alone.

But- _no._

 

~

 

_I said yes.  You made me promise.  I fell for you, Dean Winchester, and I will rise again._

_Anything for you_ , and he very carefully does not allow tears to fall when he burns Dean’s body by himself, in the open field where his brothers destroyed the world. 

He promised.

Dean is waiting for him.

_Anything for you, because I sang you the song and I love you._


End file.
